On the Peasantry

This hallowed bower and harvest of delight

Whose roots ethereal seemed to clutch the stars,

Whose amaranths perfumed eternity,

Is fixed in earthly soil enriched with bones

Of used-up workers; fattened with the blood

Of prostitutes, the prime manure; and dressed

With brains of madmen and the broken hearts

Of children. Understand it, you at least

Who toil all day and writhe and groan all night

With roots of luxury, a cancer struck

In every muscle: out of you it is

Cathedrals rise and Heaven blossoms fair;

You are the hidden putrefying source

Of beauty and delight, of leisured hours,

Of passionate loves and high imaginings;

You are the dung that keep the roses sweet,

I say, uproot it; plough the land; and let

A summer-fallow sweeten all the World.